


Playing the Part

by bluecurls



Series: No Longer Playing [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecurls/pseuds/bluecurls
Summary: This is a companion piece to No Longer Playing.





	

He'd never forget the first time she smiled at him. It was shy but playful, a fascinating combination that made him want to peel back every layer until he knew exactly what made Hermione Granger tick. She was an enigma, a woman who appeared a certain way one moment and something else entirely the next. Bookworm. War hero. Innocent. Worldly.

She talked. A lot. Malfoy complained about her incessant chatter constantly, blind to the irony of his behavior as he bitched about the know-it-all Mudblood. He had to listen to it in the Slytherin common room, the Quidditch locker room, the dining table in the Great Hall. If it had been anyone but Draco Malfoy, Marcus would have used physical force to shut them up, but he was a Flint. Flints knew when to make their move.

It didn't surprise him when the pair established a friendship of sorts. She was the kind of person who believed the "love conquers all" propaganda Dumbledore spouted and Malfoy was Malfoy. The family name, the family reputation, superseded childhood animosity. Marcus understood his actions and didn't judge him for it. It was a new world and Malfoy was determined to own a piece of it. If Granger's friendship sweetened the deal, more power to him.

He didn't give a damn about his reputation. People thought they knew Marcus Flint. They only knew the image, the carefully-crafted exterior he was raised to project. They thought he was a prejudiced Pureblood, a brainless jock, a monosyllabic moron. They thought that because he let them. That's what he wanted them to believe. He used their bias against them – in the classroom, on the Quidditch field and in life. How else would he have survived Voldemort? How else would he have avoided Azkaban? How else would he have maintained his family's home and vaults?

He let the Montrose Magpies' publicity machine do their job. He had his teeth straightened and fixed his nose every time he broke it, but he did nothing to correct or support the Monotone Marcus spin they created. The way he saw it, the less interesting he appeared to the public, the more they'd leave him alone. He did nothing to invite their questions or entice their company. Let others have the spotlight. He preferred making his move within the shadows.

Adrian Pucey knew this. Friends since before Hogwarts, he knew Marcus better than anyone. So why was he insisting he accompany him to the opening of Malfoy's club? That wasn't his scene; never had been, never would be.

"You're going," Pucey told him.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Marcus shrugged. It would be loud. It would be crowded. No doubt some witch would hit on him; some brainless, simpering female who saw Galleons when she set eyes on the Magpies chaser. She’d flirt. She’d giggle. She’d drop to her knees at the simple crook of his finger.

He despised the faceless woman already.

Thirty minutes after arriving at Serpents & Snakes - Could Malfoy have chosen a more obvious name? - Marcus was ready to leave. The club was everything he knew it would be. The alcohol was good, but he wasn't Pucey, who adored the attention his looks demanded. He didn't feel the need to prove his superiority like Malfoy or flirt with every woman like Zabini.

"Having fun?" Pucey reached across Marcus and snagged a vodka and lemon from the private bar in the VIP lounge.

He grunted, watching as his friend made his way through the crowd. He stopped to talk to Harry Potter – Marcus shook his head at that; truly survival had to have _some_ limits – eventually joining him on the U-shaped lounge. He handed the drink to the woman on Potter's right. He craned his neck to get a look at Pucey's latest conquest, but Ron Weasley chose that moment to appear in front of him. The redhead provided a play-by-play of his last match. He glared at Pansy, wondering what curse made the witch marry this moron. He didn't bother making up an excuse when he walked away. Let Pansy comfort her husband. That's what wives did, right?

He was ready to call it a night. His friends would give him a hard time, they always did, but he stuck it out for nearly an hour. What more did they expect? He’d set his empty glass on the bar and was moving towards the the exit when she waked in.

In all the years of listening to Malfoy moan about Granger, you'd think he'd mention her breasts. They were firm, round; the perfect size for a man's hands. Her hair wasn't as wild as he vaguely remembered, but no one would ever call the curls restrained. She was short, almost too short, but her curves more than made up for her lack of inches. That's why Muggles invented heels, right?

"Hermione." Pucey swooped in from nowhere and kissed the witch enthusiastically on the mouth. Marcus' eyes narrowed at the greeting, his displeasure increasing when Zabini pulled her into a corner.

She didn't stay in one place long, making her way around the room, greeting everyone with a smile, a hug; sometimes a kiss. She took Luna Lovegood's hand and pulled her out of the room and on to the dance floor. Marcus watched from the balcony, his hands loose around the cool metal as the witch twisted and turned three floors below. She stayed on the floor for several songs, hugging Pansy tightly when she joined them, laughing as she wrapped her arms around Potter who looked like he'd rather face Voldemort again.

This was the girl Malfoy still called Mudblood? The witch Snape referred to as an insufferable know-it-all? The woman Rita Skeeter described as a publicity-seeking whore?

He introduced himself. Her eyes lit up in recognition and she prattled on about some altercation that happened at Hogwarts. He didn't listen. Her face was flushed from dancing, a thin sheen of sweat on her chest. One drop made a slow trail down her cleavage.

"Granger," he interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you ever stop talking?"

She tensed at that. She fisted her small hands, her knuckles turning white with the force. Didn't she punch Malfoy once? Would she try to hit him? "Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?"

"Marcus Flint."

She left without a word. He let her, but he didn't stop watching. He knew she could feel his gaze; he could tell by the way she carried herself. She glanced over a few times, her eyes catching his. His expression never changed. Hers did. Annoyance. Curiosity. Anger. Uneasiness.

She ignored his owls. He snorted at every unopened letter she returned. She intrigued him. Life was too fucking easy sometimes. She was going to make him work for it. He asked around, found out she was training as a healer and attending classes at a Muggle university. It didn't take much to get her schedule from Pansy, to grab a handful of flowers from his mother's garden and wait outside St. Mungo's. He didn't apologize for telling her to shut up, a move that seemed to charm her. She was used to wizards throwing themselves at her feet. It seemed she was ready for something different, too.

And Granger was different. He preferred blonds; tall, willowy blonds he didn't need to bend in half to kiss. He learned that grabbing Hermione by the arms and lifting until her lips were level with his was hot, especially when she'd wrap her legs around his waist and hold on to him with everything she had. He favored the athletic type, a woman who spent her days outdoors, who could withstand his physical prowess. She taught him that bookworms' desire for knowledge paid off in the bedroom. She still talked too much – unless he was fucking her.

"What the hell are you and Granger doing?" Draco asked.

Marcus shrugged.

"Are you sleeping with her? Is she good?"

He didn't respond. He knew the blond thrived on gossip. Knowledge was power to the Malfoys, but Marcus never said a word. He considered it payback for years of Draco's unremitted whining.

* * *

 

"Dance with me," she demanded.

He shook his head. He agreed to go to the Muggle nightclub, to help with what Malfoy called research, but dancing wasn't part of the deal.

"Please?"

"No."

She slid from her stool at the round table and walked to him, nudging his legs apart until she stood in-between them. "Dance with me and I'll go to your next Quidditch game."

"Liar."

"I'll go,” she promised. He raised an eyebrow and waited. She sighed. “I won't bring a book."

He danced. He wrapped his arms around her. His arms brushed against the side of her breasts as he pressed his arousal into her ass, his lips on her neck. She tried to turn around, to bring her lips to his, but he refused. She wanted to dance so they’d dance. They’d dance until she begged for him to take her home.

She did go to his next game. She sat with Weasley and Potter, but she was there. Her eyes were on him the entire time -- not that he broke focus to check on her. Often. It took less than four hours for the Magpies to claim another victory. He knew she'd wait for him, but he rushed through the post-game interviews and showered during the team meeting. He’s set another record. Any complaints the captain had about the team's performance had nothing to do with him.

She was reading when he found her in the stands.

"You said you wouldn't bring a book."

"I didn't read it during the game."

"You lied to me, kitten."

"So punish me," she smirked, a challenge in her eyes.

He fucked her under the Quidditch stands. He dragged her to the ground and buried himself inside her as she gasped in excitement. Her legs were clenched around his waist, his arms under her thighs as he lifted her to meet him, thrust for thrust. When it was over, when she was trembling from her orgasm, he bit his tongue to keep from saying something stupid. Like “I love you.”

He could love her. Part of him probably did. He tried not to think about it. He took what she gave him, gave her what he could. Their schedules kept them apart more often than not, so when he was given leave before an exhibition tour in the States, he apparated her to Rio. They stayed in a private villa and made love on the beach, in a hammock, in their bed.

Marcus Flint made love to Hermione Granger. Before the trip they fucked. Screwed. Shagged. There, it was love.

"When do you leave?"

They were laying in a chaise lounge on the deck, her on top of him. The shadows of the palm trees overhead shielded them from the sun. He didn't ask how she knew about the tour. The witch knew everything.

"The day after we return."

She didn't ask how long he'd be gone, if he'd come home for long weekends. He didn't ask her if she wanted him to. He didn't even ask her to accompany him to the train, though she was waiting on the platform when he arrived. He dropped his bag to the ground and strode forward. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with everything he had. Flints knew when to make their move.

* * *

 

He'd never forget the last time she smiled at him. She was despondent but accepting, a captivating combination that made him want to jump from the train and drop to one knee. He’d spout promises and poetry, anything that’d bind her to him. Instead, he faced forward, watching out of the corner of his eye as she waved goodbye.


End file.
